Christmas Tree
by inigo1220
Summary: Every year since 1947, Norway and England spend at least one December night in Trafalgar Square, remembering, sharing, and perhaps indulging in a little magic. No romantic pairing. Historical, memories of WWII.


_Trafalgar Square, London_

 _Early December_

 _Early 21_ _st_ _century_

Norway enjoys traditions more than he'd care to mention to anyone and spending the first few days of December in London every year is no exception.

In truth, his vacation in England is no old tradition, as least not by his or England's standards. But the two enjoy it anyway, often spending a few hours on a bench nearby, sipping coffee (in Norway's case) and tea (in England's) and listening to happy cries of schoolchildren as they walk by in wonder, smirking at the bizarre expressions tourists make as they take selfies or photographs with the tree, and enjoying the carolers whose sweet melodies help drown out the noise of the city. Their get-togethers are usually quiet, only interrupted by Norway's occasional comments on England's magic or his own ability to see trolls, and usually more by England's biting sarcasm and snappy comments at, especially, the American tourists.

Norway cannot deny his enjoyment of these chats. He truly never has quite forgiven England for the First World War, which claimed many of his sailors and ships, but he also has never quite been able to forget his gratitude for England protecting his monarchs and supporting his resistance movement. Of all the nations with which to remember the Second World War, Norway thinks, none stirs a memory quite so positive as England – and that war rarely brings anything positive regardless.

"Is your troll nibbling my hair?" England murmurs, sipping at his cup of tea.

Norway turns his head around, spying Hadred looking guiltily to the side. "Not anymore," Norway sighs softly in reply. England chuckles. The choral group is now singing "Angels We Have Heard on High." Norway doesn't quite remember when he stopped believing in God, or if he ever did. He unconsciously touches the cross-shaped pin in his hair, wondering why he has never thought to change its shape. England crosses his legs, scooting a little closer to Norway for warmth.

Norway's lip curls slightly. He isn't cold at all.

"Fucking mountainous furnace," England mutters.

"Try lying against Denmark," Norway replies.

England smirks. "I think you do much more with him."

"I think you're just missing Alfred," Norway shoots back nonchalantly before innocently taking another sip of coffee and grimacing. The British, he thinks, really need lessons on brewing coffee, or at least need fewer lessons from Americans. Norway glances back at England who is wearing a rather pink look on his cheeks. "How cute," Norway murmurs. England looks at him, confused. "You look just like the sweet little boy you looked like when I first saw you."

England raises a thick eyebrow. "You mean when you first threw me to the ground, chained me to a wall, and informed me that you would return each year expecting me to pay you so that I wouldn't end up tied to a fence post outside your house again?"

Norway is just tall enough to allow him to shift his eyes to look at England without having to move his head. "Something like that," he replies mischievously. Though he is a staunch supporter now of democracy and equality and would never dream of invading another nation again, he rather enjoys being reminded of his conquering, youthful days. He almost misses them. Misses being out on sea for months, misses the ache in his arms from holding a too heavy sword and the mental exhaustion of calling upon too much of his magic to aide him.

"Yet look at you now," England snickers. "The champion of the Nordic welfare system." Norway only provides him a small, secretive quirk of lips in response. He likes England, but not that much. First the British bastard would have to pay for all he did to Emil and those ships he sank. The carolers have changed their tune. "Silent Night". England begins murmuring the melody under his breath. Norway is no way inclined to join him, preferring to sip at his coffee and close his eyes to enjoy the night breeze that has settled in. "I used to sing this song in the Tube," England confesses quietly. Norway opens his eyes, turning his head slightly to look at the British nation. England stares at the sidewalk. "When the bombs were falling, I mean," he explains. "It's become a rather comforting song." Norway remains silent.

It's that time of night, he supposes. The time to really remember.

"It's all I wanted at that time. A nice silent night," England murmurs.

Norway huffs a bit, watching his breath create a cloud in the winter air. "I wish I could have stayed silent," Norway replies.

England snickers. "Of course, you do. You're the quietest bastard alive."

Norway looks at him seriously until England frowns. "The night of the heavy water sabotage," Norway begins, turning his gaze to brightly lit Christmas tree. "Everything seemed so loud. Even our breathing."

England hums. Norway returns his gaze to him, but England is now staring at the night sky. You can't really see the stars here. Norway suddenly longs for home. In the mountains, the stars light the sky as clear as day and they reflect so brightly off the many lakes and fjords of his body that Norway almost hesitates to skinny-dip in the nighttime, if only not to break their brilliance. Almost.

He takes a final sip of his coffee, grimacing even harder as the unmixed sugar touches his tongue, spiking the coffee's normal bitterness with a biting sweetness. Disgusted, he turns and tosses the cup into the bin next to their bench. England snorts. "Sorry."

Norway grunts in reply, about to stand up and bring some warmth to his numbing legs when England asks a question he thought he would never hear: "When will you stop giving me these Christmas trees?" Norway does not turn to look at him, preferring to put his now empty hands into his coat pocket. He feels the cigarette packet in his coat pocket and wonders if this a smoke-free area. Deciding the he doesn't care either way, he takes out the packet of cigarettes, offering on to England. The Brit shakes his head, and Norway shrugs. Knowing that smoke inhalation isn't good for humans, Norway avoids smoking around them, but nations, like himself and England, will not be affected.

"Smoked way too much in the eighties," England chuckles as he watches Norway light his cigarette. Norway shrugs, taking a good inhale. He does not love smoking nor is he addicted, but he enjoys the feeling of a cigarette in his fingers and relishes the release of the smoke puff into the air. Like having winter even in the dead of summer, he reminds himself of his own saying. "And at every point in my existence really," England admits, still watching Norway smoke. "I hadn't realized how much I smoked until it was rationed out during the wars." He pauses. "You never told me much about your resistance."

Norway spares him a glance. "You get a tree in return for my silence don't you?"

England grins. "Indeed, I receive a nice, bright twenty to thirty year old gorgeous Norwegian tree every year. Although I was under the impression that it was in exchange for my troubles of sitting with a near mute bastard every early December." Norway resists the urge to smile. Sometimes, he wonders if he and England are more closely related than they think. Would be nice to have someone even feistier than Finland in their group, though he doubts England could surpass him in sarcasm usage.

Norway hums. "What do you want to know?" England shrugs. Norway sighs, bringing his legs up to the rest of his body. "You could just Google it. There are plenty of accounts." England does not reply. For some time, they remain silent and just as Norway begins to think that he may have angered England, the Brit begins to speak,

"Being in the Tube was terrifying." He refuses to look at Norway. "You felt like you could hear everything. Bombs exploding. Buildings crumbling to the ground. Children crying and shrieking each time a bomb fell. Singing. Praying. Some people even brought card games and tried to pretend that everything was okay." England glances at Norway who is also not looking at him. "I started to sing, too. It felt like the only thing I could do. I had no family to comfort. I couldn't cry about the possibility of dying; I knew I'd resuscitate. Who would I play card games with? I couldn't go back up to the surface either; it would have been a pointless suicide. I couldn't fly up with those brave pilots and try to destroy those bombers. I… didn't believe prayer would make any difference.

"So I sang," England continued, using that same quiet, quavering voice. "I started off with some war songs but for some reason I always went back to 'Silent Night'. I don't think I realized at the time… but in hindsight, I think it was all I wanted."

For a moment, Norway almost wishes Denmark were here. Denmark would know what to say, how to provide light, comforting touches, and when the time was right to crack a joke. But Norway has nothing to say, except his own story:

"It was very dark when we approached the factory. It was in February. Sun still hardly comes up and in February at midnight, it can get so dark you can't see your own hand. Everything seemed so loud: when Haukelid cut the chain and we all rushed in. I was left on guard since it would take many more bullets to down me than anyone else. Everything made so much noise that night," Norway murmurs. "The trees. The wind. The birds. The thud that came from the machine. The scratching of my clothes against my fingers. We didn't want to kill guards, necessarily. We brought chloroform to knock out any humans we encountered. I kept my hand around mine.

"They told me afterwards that they had had to shatter a glass pane to get inside the target. That I didn't hear," he noted quietly. "Still, I did hear the thud of the explosion. I remember my breath hitching. I was almost waiting for the sound of gunshots, yelling. But there was only silence. I saw a flashlight, briefly. But it soon ended and before I knew it. The nine had returned, completely unharmed."

Norway takes the cigarette out of his mouth, sensing it is time to go. He opens his palm, lighting a flame atop it that incinerates the cigarette in seconds. England watches with some interest. "Interesting how neither of us actually fought much," the Brit comments.

Norway glances at him. "I suppose so," he finally concedes. They stand up together, and Norway looks down at the British nation. "But then again, I've always preferred using my magic to violence, anyway." Snow begins to fall, and England gives him a confused look. Norway sticks out his tongue ever so slightly to catch a flake enjoy the sensation of its melting in his mouth. The Norwegian offers England an outstretched hand.

"Until next time, _Norge_ ," England says, a small smile working around his lips as he takes Norway's hand. Norway's eyes light up with amusement. He will not tell England that indeed he caused the snowfall, though, England, it seems, has caught on to the game.

"Goodbye, England," Norway replies, shaking his hand.

"See you at the next UN or NATO or whatever bloody meeting we have next," England calls as Norway walks away, barely lifting a hand in acknowledgment of England's departing words. But he doesn't leave the Square, choosing instead to make his way closer to the tree. The carolers have left, and it is rapidly approaching midnight. The only people near the tree are tourists and teenagers who laugh too loudly, stumble quite drunkly, and stare in childish wonder at the giant tree of the square.

Norway catches himself humming a song himself. He permits himself a small smile when he realizes which song and begins to walk away from the tree back to his hotel, but not before scanning his eyes across those words:

 _This tree is given by the city of Oslo as a token of Norwegian gratitude to the people of London for their assistance during the years 1940-45._

 _A tree has been given annually since 1947._

And hopefully will be given until Norway lays to rest, he thinks, sticking out his tongue to catch more snowflakes as he crosses the road, blissfully unaware of the starless sky, the sounds of London traffic, and his troll who walks like a shadow behind him.


End file.
